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Taking Halo: (Chapter Four) The Cartographer
Posted By: Steele<hoffmansteele@hotmail.com>
Date: 9 June 2003, 3:42 AM
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Authors Note: Its been a while since I posted and I kinda ended this one sooner than intended, but the next will make up for it. If you don't know what's happening click on "Read this series.
Taking Halo: (Chapter 4) The Cartographer
Dramatis Personae:
Colonel William Jenkins—1st *MAS Battalion Commanding officer
Major Jason Reynolds—1st MAS Battalion Executive officer
Captain James Armstrong—Bravo Company Commander
Gunnery Sergeant Patrick Myers—Bravo Company 1st Sergeant
Staff Sergeant Matthew Duncan—Bravo Company Sniper
PFC Nicholas Moore—Bravo Company Demolitions and Heavy Weapons Expert
Colonel Rick Santinez—2nd Armored Calvary Battalion Commander
2nd Lieutenant Jack Hudson—2nd Armored Calvary Battalion C Company, 3rd Platoon Dismount
Lieutenant Samuel "Saint" Ryder—VF41 "Black Aces" Squadron member
Captain Jeffery Wayne—Commander of the UNSC Talbot
Lako 'Ikaptammue—Covenant Ship Master of CCS Purity of Spirit
Karen Hunt—UWN (Universal Wide News) Reporter tasked to the UNSC Roost
*MAS—Mechanized Armored Suit
2350 Hours, October 31, 2552 (Military Calendar)/
Groundside on 2nd located Halo, unknown system, designated as System Halo II
The golden-armored Elite picked his way through the rocky landscape with great precision. Sensing something, the Elite dodged behind a weathered red boulder and peeked his head around the rock.
Craaaaaaaaack!
The Elite's head exploded in a shower of blood and bone fragments. The rock was stained a deep violet and the Elite's headless corpse slumped to the ground.
"Bloody good shot, Sarge," said the Bravo Company commander, Captain James Armstrong.
"Thank you, sir. We could have gotten closer, though. A mile is pretty long—even for my 20mm."
"Yeah, but they're getting closer. We don't want them to realize we're here yet."
Staff Sergeant Matthew Duncan eased his two-ton Mechanized Armored Suit up off the red desert floor and shouldered his 120-pound 20mm sniper rifle. "That's the Cartographer over there, isn't it?" He asked, pointing in the distance.
Captain Armstrong's helmeted head lifted and looked in the direction Duncan was pointing. "Yep. And, we're going to take it."
"It looks heavily defended. Even our suits can't stand up to Banshees," Duncan stated anxiously.
"Don't worry 'bout it. We've got air support. Now let's get back to the ol' man."
Duncan nodded and they stood up and jogged off in the direction of the 1st MAS Battalion's HQ.
2nd Located Halo local space, bridge of the CCS Purity of Spirit
Lako 'Ikaptammue turned and bowed to the Prophet before him. "You're early, Exalted. I would have thought you—"
The Major Prophet waved a gauntleted arm in his direction, signaling him to be quiet. "I do not care what you would have thought, 'Ikaptammue. I am here and that is all that counts. Now what is happening with these humans?"
'Ikaptammue inwardly flinched. "They have somehow managed to land on the ring world, but we did take out their carrier. They're stranded here—easy pickings." Just like arữbii.
The Prophet clicked his shoulder sockets in acknowledgment. "To what cost was the human ship taken out?"
'Ikaptammue groaned. "Three destroyers and a battlecruiser."
The Prophet's green eyes bulged. "You lost four ships to a primitive human ship. How did that happen? Did they use one of their dirty 'nukes?' Nevermind, it doesn't matter. What are you planning on doing about the humans on Halo?"
'Ikaptammue smiled for the first time this day. "I've already dispatched a force to take destroy them." The God's instruments are pure and invincible! How true the True Saying was.
Cockpit of C742 Dagger Space Superiority Fighter
Lieutenant Samuel "Saint" Ryder of the VF41 Black Aces was feeling lucky. It was a perfect day to fly—and kill Covenant. His Dagger had been fully prepared too. Carrying a full load of IR missiles, his Dagger also sported a full cannon load and four ISB-ANapalm bombs.
He pulled back on the stick and eased his fighter between two high hilltops. He was flying at an altitude of 200 feet—and about to break the sound barrier. Realizing this, he pulled his throttles back and pushed the nose up. His fighter slowed down noticeably.
Craning his head around, he could just make out the tips of the three other fighters in his flight. "Soup, tighten it up. Alright, Aces, you know the drill. Hit the target with Napalm and split, going after targets of opportunity."
COM clicks greeted him in acknowledgement, just as his HUD beeped and a Nav point popped up. It was time to rock. Knowing it was against regulations, not to mention dangerous, but doing it anyway, Saint initiated a sound track. Most of it was new stuff, but some of it was old, having been around for over 500 years. And hitting it off was a song by an old group long dead, Metallica. The song was Attitude.
As the kick-ass guitar-solo intro started off, Saint flicked his weapons selector over to 'Bomb' and watched the arming light on his HUD go green. "Saint has a hot pickle. Going into the break, watch for air."
Saint shot over a last green hill and found himself flying through a barren red desert, sparsely populated with boulders. Squinting through his visor he could make out the looming structure up ahead. "Tally ho!"
He flicked his engines into afterburner and was immediately slammed back into his seat as over 500,000 pounds of thrust shot from each engine. He barely had time to press the button on his control column that would drop the bombs before he shot past the structure.
"Rifle by four!" He kicked his fighter up into a port turn and craned his head back behind him so he could see the structure engulfed in flames. He wasn't worried the bomb would destroy the structure—it wouldn't. The ISB-ANaplam bombs were designed to flow around and inside buildings, destroying anything inside, but not the building itself.
He put his Dagger through a loop and looked down behind him. His stomach did a flip-flop. Two Covenant Seraphs were trailing him, and already he could see each of them launching a Plasma Torpedo at him. Instinctively he slapped his control stick to the side and pulled, while his other hand tapped the button directly below the throttles, spewing out decoys.
His Dagger rolled to the left and banked. Saint wasn't ready for the sudden onset of extreme Gs and he almost blanked out, but he managed to stay conscious. He checked his HUD and saw his Dagger banking through the vertical at over forty-five degrees a second. Nothing in the sky could turn like that.
His sensors told him the torpedoes had missed, so he completed his fighter's inversion and dove. That was when he realized he'd made a mistake. His altitude was around 5,000 feet, his nose was pointed straight down, and his speed was about to push over 500 knots. Stupid! Unless he did something he was about to be a Black Ace pancake.
He grabbed the stick in both hands and pulled with everything he had. He checked his HUD for altitude, speed, and G. He almost stopped turning in surprise. He was pulling over 75-G. The Dagger's computer, Bitchin' Betty started squawking, "Over G, Over G, Over G..."
If it weren't for the Dagger's inertial compensator, he'd be free floating atoms right now. Finally his nose swung above the horizon and he checked his altitude: -10.5674 feet. Computer must be off... The good thing was he found himself right behind a Seraph, and his computer's IR lock-up tone was growling in his ears.
Pressing the switch on his control column, he said, "Fox Two," and watched an AIS-36 ALRAAM missile streak away on a fiery plume of smoke. The heat-seeking missile lanced into the back of the Seraph and exploded. The fighter blew-up spectacularly.
Saint keyed his COM, "Saint is through and splashes one Seraph."
"I need some cover, Saint. I've got two of 'em on my six. Can't shake 'em. Fuck! My left engine's gone! I need some cover!"
"Hold on, Soup. I'm coming," Saint said as he punched his fighter up through a twisting loop and down—right behind another Seraph.
Deployment + 04:35:19 (Private First Class Nicholas Moore Mission Clock)/
Edge of structure under attack by the VF41 "Black Aces"
"Let's do it, B Company. It's time to earn your pay," the Bravo Company first Sergeant yelled.
PFC Nick Moore smiled to himself and kicked his two-ton Mechanized Armored Combat Suit out from behind cover, along with the rest of Bravo Company. Nick could feel the adrenaline pumping through him—it all seemed so surreal.
Here he was, a soldier in the modern army, charging a modern enemy like Viking savages. When the plan had been lined out, he had half-expected the command 'Fix bayonets!' Most Marines would consider this plan of attack suicidal, but they weren't armor-jocks. Only the suit he was wearing made it possible.
Around him over a hundred other suited Marines ran, all ready to fight. Overhead Daggers and Covenant Seraphs wheeled, twisted, and dove, each trying their best to kill the other. In front of him the structure was aflame. Hundreds of Covenant soldiers screamed in agony and died in excruciating pain. Unfortunately, there was still a couple of hundred left alive, and at 100 yards from the structure they showed themselves.
Elites, Jackals, and Hunters popped from around boulders, ready to fight. As Plasma sizzled past him and the rest of B Company, Nick leveled his weapon. Because he was Bravo's Heavy Weapons Specialist he had been issued a high-powered flamethrower.
He gently squeezed the trigger and watched the carnage. Most people suffered from the misconception that a flamethrower simple shot out fire in a mist and that it had no range whatsoever. Well, those people were wrong. At around 90 yards the flamethrower boomed and a long comet of fire rocketed toward the enemy.
An Elite was head dead in the chest and his shield literally dissolved, barely lasting half a second. The Elite died almost instantly, his body a scorched husk. Next to receive treatment was a higher-ranking Jackal.
The Jackal squatted down and hid behind his shield, his arm stuck out the side, a stream of plasma shooting out his pistol. The blast of flame slammed into his shield and knocked it—and the Jackal—back a dozen feet. The Jackal didn't get back up.
Looking up he could see no more Covenant. They had done it. The Cartographer was theirs.
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